


The Seven Grievances of Terry Boot

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, F/M, Hogwarts Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he got on the train his mother had pulled him into a hug and told him she knew he'd always been special, and she was sure he'd do very well in all his classes regardless of the subject, and his father laughed and wondered how many versions of <i>Abra Cadabra</i> Terry would have to memorise. When he wrote a few weeks later to explain there was actually a fair amount of Latin to remember, his father's reply included a hint of going on to be a doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Grievances of Terry Boot

**Author's Note:**

> This is for all the Ravenclaws I've loved before. Thanks to S for inspiring the version of Justin FF that shows up here, and L for sharing my love for Terry Boot (and helping prod this story into form). JKR had listed Terry down as a Muggleborn in her notes, and while she had a lot of notes that didn't make the "final cut", I think it's interesting to try and make everything she said fit anyway. Beta'ed by the wonderful [](http://sinarie.livejournal.com/profile)[**sinarie**](http://sinarie.livejournal.com/).

"What do you mean, magic?"

Terry Boot had always thought there was some sort of explanation behind his unfailing ability to always, _always_ outrun Calvin Miller, sometimes even feeling as though he would _fly_ the last three blocks to reach the safety of his house before Miller could catch up. Then again, he'd also always thought that the explanation was more scientific, like adrenaline rush or a _really_ strong need to come home in one piece.

"Is it genetic, dear?" his father asked, looking Terry over. "Maybe Dr. Wilson can help us."

"If it were genetic, darling, there's not much Dr. Wilson can do," his mother replied. She was looking over the letter for the fiftieth time. "Orson, are you sure you don't know anyone who trains owls? This has to be some sort of elaborate prank. I just don't see _why_ they'd even do it."

His father did not answer. Orson Boot was studying the fairly thick paperback that had come with the letter. Terry turned his head to the side in an attempt to read what it said on the cover: _Yes, Your Child is Magical—Now What? A Compilation of Short Answers to Most Frequently Asked Questions by Non-Magical Parents._

"There's too much detail involved here for it to be a prank," Orson concluded, setting the book down. "Is there a Platform 9 and 3/4 at King's Cross?"

"Platform what? Maybe it's a marketing ploy. Lynette has been talking about the things companies are doing these days; she says they want to be more interactive and involved. Maybe it's a new amusement park or a carnival?"

"Mum?"

"Yes, Terry?"

"What if we go along and see what it's about?" Terry proposed. "I mean, it sounds fun. For a carnival."

"I suppose whoever orchestrated this deserves a bit of reward for their effort," his mother conceded. "And we were going to the city tomorrow anyway. What was that place you mentioned we're meant to go for school supplies, Orson? Dragon Alley? We can start there."

And maybe, if magic _were_ real, Terry thought, then wouldn't it be nice if Calvin Miller stopped giving him grief every single day of his life?

 

**i. Hermione Granger**

Hogwarts turned out to be real after all, though quite honestly, not nearly as good as it sounded on paper—sorry, parchment. A school for magic is still a school, with nasty kids who all lived in one house and terrorised students whose parents weren't magical, and professors who were strict in handing out marks for learning magic, something that, again, sounded easier than it actually was. It took Terry a full three weeks to learn how to write with quills after his professors refused to accept the penned essays he'd submitted, and instead of simply having to memorise random Latin phrases, it appeared he also had to have hand-eye coordination.

"All you have to do is swish and _flick_ ," Lisa Turpin pointed out, her nose buried in their Charms textbook. "It's all in the wrist, see."

"Swish which direction?" Terry asked. "And flick _how_? Give me that—is that honestly all it _says_?"

"Mum says there's really no one way to do it; every witch and wizard has to find their own style," Lisa told him, and Terry supposed she ought to know—while Lisa's father was like Terry's parents, her mother was a witch through and through. Lisa had sat herself in Terry's compartment, and from the time the Hogwarts Express departed Platform 9 and 3/4 (it did exist—who knew?) until it pulled into Hogsmeade, she told Terry everything he now knew. Though she came off as knowing _too_ much sometimes, Terry had secretly been pleased when she ended up in Ravenclaw as well.

"Nonsense; there has to be a step-by-step instruction _somewhere_ ," Terry responded, flipping to the back of the text, where the answers usually were. (They weren't.)

"You just need to try it until you get it right."

"I need to _revise_."

"You can't know it just by reading it; you've got to—"

"Practise, I know!" Terry huffed, plopping back in his seat. Before he got on the train his mother had pulled him into a hug and told him she knew he'd always been special, and she was sure he'd do very well in all his classes regardless of the subject, and his father laughed and wondered how many versions of _Abra Cadabra_ Terry would have to memorise. When he wrote a few weeks later to explain there was actually a fair amount of Latin to remember, his father's reply included a hint of going on to be a doctor.

_Perhaps you should consider taking your A-levels, Terry_ , his mother added in her perfect cursive handwriting. _It wouldn't hurt to keep your options open._

He didn't even have the excuse of knowing utterly nothing about magic before Hogwarts—Hermione Granger was _easily_ the best student _any_ of the teachers had ever had, and her parents were dentists. _Dentists._

"Terry?"

Hermione Granger knew _everything_. She'd come to Hogwarts having memorised all the textbooks inside and out, and if somebody ever came along and took out a chip from the back of her head it would not surprise Terry one bit. She was just the sort. He bet she planned to take her A-levels too, so she could become a doctor and a rocket scientist _and_ the next Headmistress at Hogwarts. He bet she'd do it just for _fun_.

" _Terry._ "

He popped one eye open to find Lisa eyeing him with concern. "Yeah?"

"Are you alright?"

"I think I'll read up on History for now, thanks."

 

**ii. Roger Davies**

To his surprise, the one practical class that he somewhat enjoyed was Flying, and when Harry Potter made the Gryffindor team, Terry resolved he'd try out for Ravenclaw's when the time came. And since his parents knew nothing about what was considered the right age for kids to start flying, getting a decent broom to practise on would be easy.

"A broom?"

"Yes, Mum, I did all the conversions and everything; it wouldn't cost much at all. It could be my Christmas present?"

"Terry, darling, we've got three brooms in our closet. What do you need another one for?"

"For Quid—there's a game wizards play," Terry began to explain, though by the look of utter confusion on his mother's face he knew it was going to be a lost cause. "They fly around on brooms and try to shoot goals on rings up in the air."

"Are you talking about a sport?" his father asked, walking into the room with what looked like the biggest, sturdiest broom the Boot family owned. He tossed it in Terry's direction and missed hitting him in the head by inches. "Here, son. Show your mother how it's done."

Terry stared at the broom lying at his feet, then looked up at his parents' expectant gazes. "Actually, I think I'd just like Supermario 3 for Christmas instead."

They never bought him a broom, in the end, which turned out to be a good thing. Through first and second year, Terry practised with the old models that Hogwarts lent its students, and while he found he could manoeuvre fairly well up in the air, his ability to do anything else was severely limited. Holding onto the broom with only one hand skewed his balance, which was quite unhelpful if he planned to hold a Quaffle, or a bat, or do anything else, really.

It didn't help either that he always ended up on the pitch when the Slytherin team was. When they started throwing random objects for him to catch (claiming it would help him when he tried out for Ravenclaw Goal Post #2), well, that just completely stunted his development as a Quidditch player altogether.

Tryouts for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team took place in the second week of term his third year, and because there was a part of him that believed in masochism, Terry dragged Lisa up to the stands to watch.

"Hey, we'll need replacements for those guys someday, right?"

"By then there'll be new blood in Ravenclaw," Terry mumbled, elbows resting on his knees, chin on his hands. David Bobbin, the team's captain, was passing Quaffles to the dozen or so students who'd signed up for the team, while the team Beaters—Bundy and Carmichael, Terry thought their names were—whacked the Bludgers into every direction imaginable. The rest of the team flew overhead, catching missed Quaffles and making sure no one fell off their brooms.

"Or by then you'd have gotten better," Lisa countered. She picked up the book she'd taken with her, a dubious romance novel by Eliza Enchantress, and flipped to the middle. "Let me know when you're done mourning."

"Some support you turned out to be," Terry huffed, kicking her ankle a little.

"I do my—"

"Watch out!" a third voice yelled in warning. Terry and Lisa turned at once to see a rogue Bludger heading in their direction, though before it even registered in either of their minds, a flurry of blue and bronze had already tackled it to the stands.

"Merlin, are you alright?" Lisa asked, running to the crumpled figure, Terry not far behind.

The boy—Roger Davies, Chaser—winced. "I think so. Sorry about that, Eddie wasn't looking and he should definitely have been. Hey, hold up your hand for me?"

Lisa did, frowning a little. "Okay?"

"Five fingers, right?"

"Well, you said to hold up my _hand_."

Roger grinned. "I still count okay, then." He jumped to his feet. "Next time, both of you need to be careful; it isn't every day I can do saves like that."

"No, it isn't," Lisa mumbled, cheeks tinged red.

"Especially as you're a Chaser, not a Keeper," Terry pointed out, a bit alarmed at the slightly glazed look Lisa wore.

"Yeah, well, I'll see you around. I don't think I ever got your names."

"I'm Terry, and this is Lisa," Terry answered. "She likes reading Eliza Enchantress."

"Shut _up_ ," Lisa hissed, elbowing him.

"Nice to meet you, Terry and Lisa. My name's Roger—"

"We know."

Roger grinned. "Well, I'll see you around," he said, jumping back onto his broom—a Nimbus, how _lucky_ —but not before giving Lisa a secret little wink.

"Bye," Lisa squeaked in reply, moments later.

"Oh, honestly."

 

**iii. Justin Finch-Fletchley**

Life without Lisa Turpin wasn't all that bad, Terry decided. So what if she spent all year making puppy eyes at Roger Davies and denying it, and so what if she turned all shades of red whenever anyone so much as mentioned Quidditch in her presence? So what if she spent the summer writing _Davies_ letters, and so what if she sat on the train with Davies and his posse of Quidditch players?

_Oh, Terry—it's Terry, isn't it?_ Cho Chang had asked, eyes full of what looked like concern, right before she apologised because their compartment was full.

Lisa barely even noticed he was _there_.

"Terry Boot, I will only ask this once, and when I do, you had better not lie to me."

"What?" Terry blinked to look at Justin Finch-Fletchley, who'd sat with him in _his_ compartment after stomping away from the Hufflepuffs' that same train ride (Draco Malfoy had passed by, taken a look at them, and called them the Moody Mudbloods—Terry and Justin responded by mooding up the compartment with silence instead, until it got uncomfortable enough that Malfoy eventually left), and who had, inexplicably, kept talking to him throughout the year.

Perhaps it was because they were both non-magical, and they'd both have gone on to Eton (or Terry would have, if his father didn't have that police record from 1979, but Justin didn't need to know that), or maybe it was because their best mates had just dumped them for Quidditch players, but Terry was grateful for the excuse to step away from the Ravenclaw common room every now and then and talk to someone else who wasn't as concerned with things like marks and who did better than everyone else in this or that class, especially if it meant making fun of Roger Davies and Megan Jones and decidedly _not_ going to Quidditch games.

"Do you fancy her?" Justin asked with all seriousness.

"Who?"

"Lisa Turpin! Do you fancy her?"

"Silence!" Madam Pince hissed from the library entrance.

"Are you _mad_?" Terry whispered, eyes wide. "No! Of course not! I just—she's my _friend_ , and she—" She hasn't been acting like one, Terry wanted to say, but for some reason that felt cruel.

"Why not?"

"What do you mean, why not?"

"She's pretty," Justin pointed out. " _Really_ pretty. _Roger Davies_ fancies her, and you've been attached at the hip since first year. Do you fancy anyone else?"

"I—no, I—" And the thing was, Terry _had_ noticed that she was pretty. He had. He wasn't ignorant of the looks she attracted from other boys—only he'd never thought of her that way, because Lisa was—well, he just hadn't.

"Why not?" Justin asked again, and Terry wished he knew the answer to that, because he was asking himself the very same thing.

"I don't know," Terry mumbled in response, frowning at his textbook. "Can we talk about something else?"

Justin's foot bumped against his calf. "I think I know why, Terry Boot."

"Do you?" Terry asked, undeniably curious.

Justin nodded solemnly.

"Why is that, then?"

Justin moved closer, beckoning Terry to do the same. Terry did, turning his ear toward Justin, wondering how awful the answer could possibly be that it needed to be whispered, but Justin never whispered anything in his ear. Instead, he held Terry's chin and turned his face towards his, and before Terry could do anything, Justin's lips were against his own.

It took only a moment (five seconds, maybe ten? Certainly it wasn't twenty, couldn't be longer than that), before Terry pulled back with a gasp, eyes wide and heart racing so fast he'd swear there were two of them. "No, I—no, that's not it."

Justin did not look convinced.

"I have to go," Terry stammered, gathering his things and stuffing them quickly into his bag. "I'm sorry, Justin, but that—"

"Yeah," Justin said, a little too quickly. "You haven't got to hurry, you know; I'm not going to do it again."

"It's not—Justin, I'm just—I'm not."

Justin gave him a bright smile. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I—yeah," Terry said, nodding. "Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow."

Justin waved him away then, and Terry stalked through the corridors of Hogwarts with long and hurried strides, winding down staircases and around corners with the same Seven Ptolemic Laws of Arithmantic Formulation running through his head. He had to ask The Eagle _thrice_ to repeat his question before Penelope Clearwater came by and let him in (though not before giving him a very disapproving look—she couldn't have _been_ at the library, could she? What was Terry thinking? Of course she was, she was a Ravenclaw _and_ a Clearwater and she'd probably seen everything and _what would his mother say?_ ).

Terry shook his head as he walked up to his dorm room, intent on perhaps running through more Arithmantic equations for the remainder of the evening. Arithmantic equations would be his new best friend, he decided. They would never abandon him for Quidditch or try to snog him, he thought to himself, pulling open the curtains around his bed with all intention of flinging himself upon it and burrowing beneath the covers with his lovely, glorious, loyal and uncomplicated equations. It would have worked, too, if Lisa weren't already there, eyes red and puffy and cheeks stained with tears.

"He's going to the Ball with _Fleur_ ," she told him in between sniffles. "He didn't even _say_ anything; I heard from Mandy."

"Oh, _Lisa_ ," Terry murmured, crawling onto the bed beside her and pulling her into a hug. "I'm so sorry."

 

**iv. Anthony Goldstein**

Dating Lisa Turpin wasn't all that bad, Terry decided. Her hands sort of got clammy when she held onto his for too long, and she made a habit of using him as her pillow far too often, which got uncomfortable because then there was half of him that was too warm and another half that was too cold. Lisa was also very _bony_ for a girl, but by her happy little sighs he guessed he was supposed to like it when she did those things.

He didn't understand either why his housemates were so keen on whether or not he'd seen her shirtless yet. (He'd accidentally placed his hand on her chest, once, and found himself surprised at how _soft_ she'd been there, and when she squeaked against his mouth he drew his hand away, red-faced and unable to look her in the eye.)

Dating Lisa Turpin meant he got his best friend back, however, and though it also meant he no longer got around to meeting with Justin Finch-Fletchley (he tried to catch his eye once, in the Great Hall, but Justin looked the other way, and Terry supposed—well, that was that, wasn't it, and what should he have done?), at least he had someone to bring to the Yule Ball—and she _was_ very pretty, wasn't she?

She made him promise to write her every day of the summer holiday, hugging him too hard just before they parted, but then everyone did, the Hufflepuffs especially, who were quiet and less cheery than they normally were at the end of the year.

That happens when someone dies, Terry thought, but it wasn't easy to remember (it was never easy to remember that there were madmen on the loose or that there were evil creatures that turned students to stone) when he came home to parents who knew nothing about the sort of lunacy he had to deal with on a daily basis back in Hogwarts. They wouldn't understand that it's fine to have that sort of danger going on, that it was all part of this master plot for Harry Potter, and one day when books about The Boy Who Lived were written Terry doubted he'd ever really get more than a footnote, if at all. And they'd probably misspell his name if they did.

Really, the biggest story in his life was why he wasn't acting like a regular red-blooded male around the prettiest Ravenclaw girl in his year, but he suspected even _that_ wouldn't sit very well with Mr. and Mrs. Boot. They were already acting as though the world would end when summer came and went and Terry Boot was not made Prefect.

"Oh, darling, I'm sure if you spoke with your Headmaster, he'll be able to tell you what happened to your Prefect badge."

"Mum, it's—"

"You said they sent those by owl?" his father butted in. "You can't trust owls for important letters; you just can't. They're owls! How would they _know_?"

Terry bit his lip, refraining from pointing out that owls usually had a higher rate of successful deliveries than the Royal Mail, mostly because the Royal Mail was hardly a standard one aspired to reach. Instead he nodded, promised his parents he'd find out why he hadn't been made prefect, and got on the Hogwarts Express to find Lisa.

"Life as I know it is hereby no longer worth living," he declared, before slumping into the seat beside her.

"The Prefect badge still hasn't showed up?"

"It was never mine to begin with," Terry sighed. "Goodbye, Healing School. Goodbye, Higher Studies. Perhaps I'll need to do my A-levels after all."

Lisa snorted. "You've certainly got a future in WADA. Maybe you should send in an application."

"Dramatic Arts? Oh, yes, I'll be the starving artist! Mum will have a right _fit_."

"It's only a badge," Lisa said, laughing. "I'm sure your OWLs and NEWTs will be _much_ better measures of what you're capable of."

"Don't remind me," Terry moaned, burying his face in his hands. "I still can't figure out how to Transfigure anything over a foot tall and McGonagall's said that'll _definitely_ show up in the OWLs!"

"Oh, there you are!" Mandy cut in, entering the compartment and plopping herself down on the seat across from Terry and Lisa's. "Did you hear? Anthony and Padma are our Prefects."

Terry groaned, leaning his weight against Lisa as he lay his head on her shoulder. "I should have known."

Mandy shrugged. "Flitwick owes his life to Anthony's father; you can't say it's surprising." It wasn't; back in 1976, Anthony's father deflected a curse aimed at Flitwick by a disgruntled dueling opponent and they've been fast friends since. If Harry Potter hadn't been in their year, Flitwick would somehow have found a way to mention Mr. Goldstein's heroics to class nearly every day.

Lisa patted Terry on the back. "Don't worry; we'll find you something productive to do."

The little smirk she wore when she said it, however, did little to ease Terry.

 

**v. Michael Corner**

"What's wrong?"

What was wrong, indeed, and if only Terry Boot had the answer.

Here he was, a fifteen-year-old boy who had somehow not only managed to make a pretty girl think he was worth her time, but who had also succeeded in getting her alone in the boys' dorm while his Housemates were at dinner. And here was Lisa, clinging to his shoulders with the buttons to her top all undone, skirt riding up her thighs, the rest of her a strip of fabric away from the rest of him. Her eyes were large and a watery blue made especially clear by the way her dark hair framed her face, and she looked at him with the same uncertainty he was showing.

"Terry, what's wrong?" she asked again.

Nothing should be the answer, and Terry knew it. Lisa was his best friend and he loved her and any boy in Hogwarts would love to trade places with him right now (any boy but Justin, a little voice in his head piped up), and Terry Boot was just being ridiculously _daft_.

"Nothing," he replied, as he _should_ , and he kissed her again, and when Lisa's hands pressed against his chest he kissed her harder.

There were things—many different kinds of things—that Ravenclaws knew. There were the things they learned from books, like Gamp's Laws of Elemental Transfiguration, and the different uses for a bezoar, and what a Mandrake is good for. There were the things they were taught, like to never trust anything if you can't see where it keeps its brain, to speak very clearly if you're using Floo powder, and to think of funny things when facing a boggart.

And then there were the things that they'd known all along and didn't have to be taught about, like the fact that testing Professor Snape's patience was probably not a good idea, that Justin Finch-Fletchley probably knew more than he was given credit for, that Lisa Turpin was the best mate anyone could want, but that does not automatically make her the best girlfriend, especially not when—

And of course, by the time these truths reared their ugly heads, by the time Ravenclaws were no longer able to pretend they didn't know these things, it would already be too late.

Because the worst thing about Ravenclaws making these kinds of mistakes is that really, they should have known better.

"I'm sorry," Terry whispered, but he could not look Lisa in the eye. He could hear her sniffling, could almost swear that she was furiously brushing away the tears in her eyes as she buttoned her blouse, pulled up her skirt, smoothed back her hair, and walked out without saying anything else.

Terry stayed buried beneath the sheets in his bed for the rest of the evening, coaxed back to civilisation only when Michael Corner bounded back in.

"You and Lisa coming to Hogsmeade tomorrow?" he asked, refusing to stop poking Terry until he relented.

"No."

"What? You're staying here _again_? Merlin, how much sex do you need—"

"Michael!"

"What?"

"I'm not going to Hogsmeade with Lisa tomorrow," Terry mumbled.

"Why no—oh. _Oh._ " Michael narrowed his eyes. "Well then, that's alright; there are plenty of birds in the sea—or air, if you want to keep the analogy—or metaphor, whatever that is—"

"Michael, I don't think—"

"You can come with me and Ginny!" Michael proposed. "She's been talking about this thing Granger's planning to set up, but we can't know what it is unless we meet with them."

Terry wrinkled his nose. "I don't need another study group."

Oh no, it wasn't a study group, but Terry _had_ to come, Michael insisted, so Terry agreed, though as soon as he stepped into The Hog's Head he began to seriously reconsider his judgment. It looked like the sort of place where life savings were gambled away, where wizards were killed in sudden duels. Anthony Goldstein had come with them, and he had his full attention on Hermione Granger, who was proposing some sort of underground dueling club that Terry was fairly certain would get them all expelled.

"C'mon, Terry, sign it," Michael urged beside him, and Terry sighed, writing off his future.

He'd give the DA this much credit: because it routinely put his marks in danger—of _course_ Umbridge would set up a squad, pattern it after the godforsaken _Inquisition_ , and let Malfoy and his posse lead it—it certainly knew how to take up his time. Of course, because of it he now also knew that Hermione Granger could perform the Protean Charm (How could she? It was NEWT level. _How?_ ), that Justin would rather pair up with Luna Lovegood than with him (and that he would rather practise with Ernie MacMillan than Anthony Goldstein; who was Goldstein kidding?), and that there were more people who had worse grasps of relationships than him.

"Tell me again why you're no longer seeing Ginny?" Terry asked, rubbing his temples.

"They _beat_ our _team_ ," Michael repeated emphatically, as though that explained everything.

"I still don't get it," Terry confessed, and that was the problem with hanging around Michael Corner. The boy made leaps and bounds with his logic, skipping steps with nary a care how they got there and leaving poor Terry to try and catch up with the whys and hows. "Did you want her to throw the game so we'd win?"

Michael glared at him. "Are you a Ravenclaw or aren't you?"

"I am, but she's your girlfriend!"

"Not anymore," Michael huffed (Terry thought that was probably a good thing for Ginny), and before Terry could attempt to excuse himself from the conversation Cho walked into the common room and did Terry a favour.

"Look at her," Michael murmured, a hint of fondness in his tone. "She looks so heartbroken."

By now, Terry knew better than to expect any less of Michael Corner.

 

**vi. Julian Dorny**

It may have taken him long enough, but in his sixth year Terry Boot finally realised this: Ravenclaws belonged to the library for a reason. He was aware of the stereotypes, of bookish Ravenclaws who grew into spinsters, lost as they were among the towering tomes in most libraries—but he didn't mind living up to it. He was quite clearly rubbish at anything other than revising anyway. Seventh year was around the corner as well, and if he didn't figure out how to do a Protean Charm by year's end he'd be putting himself (and his House) to shame.

"Hey!"

"Yeah?" Terry asked, turning around to see Julian Dorny, a Ravenclaw a year higher. Terry had seen him around here and there, though they'd never actually spoken before.

Julian smiled sheepishly. "That book's the last one on the shelf."

"I'm aware of that; it's why I was happy to take it."

"No, you don't understand. I _need_ that book."

"You can borrow it after me; I won't take very long." He probably would (he had no idea how long it would take to master a NEWT-level charm, and if it turned out to need more swishing and flicking than he was comfortable with, it could very well take twice the time), but he didn't have to tell Julian that.

"But I'm taking the NEWTs and I _can't_ screw it up," Julian said. "Tell you what—could we share it?"

Terry really preferred revising alone, but who was he to sabotage someone else's academic standing? Julian wasn't in his year anyway. "Fine," he said. "But you better not hog anything!"

"I won't!" Julian promised, grinning. "Could I meet you here at five tomorrow? I've got Potions soon."

Terry agreed, watching Julian leave before he turned back to the section he'd been browsing.

"I think he fancies you."

"Lisa!"

Lisa smiled faintly from where she stood at the end of the aisle. "Hi." There was an awkward pause, because Terry wasn't sure what Lisa wanted him to say, and perhaps Lisa wasn't all that certain either. "He knows his Charms, you know."

"What?"

"Julian. I saw him the other day, trying it out with Cho," Lisa explained. "He didn't need that book to study; he needed it to talk to you. I think he fancies you."

"You're mad," Terry told her, still not quite sure where the conversation was headed.

"I'm not. You'll see," Lisa said, the corner of her lip curling up into a grin. "And you'll tell me all about it?"

And that was the good thing about Ravenclaws, because they picked up on some things lightning-quick. Neither Terry nor Lisa had to apologise to know they were both sorry, and it was good to know that it was easy to pick up on some friendships right where they left off, wasn't it. Lisa _had_ been right too, and Terry was so _very_ glad he could talk to her after Julian Dorny _kissed_ him in a quiet corner of the library, or else he'd have imploded.

Julian liked to kiss him, Terry found out, and that was okay. It wasn't surprising and delusion-shattering in the way Justin's had been, nor chaste and awkward like Lisa's. It did take place in a number of strange places: behind statues, in empty classrooms, forgotten corridors—

"The girls' bathroom?" Terry gasped, pulling away from Julian. "What—"

"It's Myrtle's bathroom," Julian explained, leading him into a stall. "And I know for a fact that Myrtle is in the Prefects' at this very moment."

Terry's misgivings about the choice of venue were lost, stolen from his lips by another of Julian's kisses. Terry leaned back, pressed against the stall door as Julian's mouth moved down the line of his jaw, sucking just _so_ and making Terry whimper. Oh, Lisa would have a right squeal over _that_ one, Terry thought, and he would have moaned louder because Julian's hand just rubbed against him so _deliciously_ but someone stalked in right then, slamming the bathroom door shut behind them.

Terry's eyes widened and Julian froze. If they were _caught_ —Terry scooted, stepping on the toilet to at least remove an incriminating extra pair of feet. He peered over the top of the stall door to see who had come in. (He couldn't help it; he was a Ravenclaw and they were a curious lot.)

He wasn't a girl, but he was alone. Terry could only make out the back of his head as he bowed over the sink, hands gripping the edges so tightly that the knuckles were white. Terry held his breath, but he wouldn't have been heard over the sound of retching.

Below him, Julian made a face. "That's disgusting," he whispered, and Terry shushed him with a wave of his hand. Terry said nothing, only watching the boy as he finished, and when he looked up at the mirror with reddened eyes Terry's stomach churned. He stayed in place, ducking his head, and didn't move until Draco Malfoy left the bathroom.

"Who was that?" Julian asked.

"Some girl," Terry mumbled. "I couldn't make out her face."

 

**vii. Draco Malfoy**

At the end of the term, there was a somber Leaving Feast, the name of which Julian took to heart, it seemed. He pulled Terry aside and in halting, apologetic tones, explained why he thought it was probably not a good idea to see him anymore.

Lisa came to his rescue, bless her soul, tugging him away, and during Dumbledore's funeral when Terry wept openly against her shoulder no one thought the worst of him. When his parents asked how the year had been, he mumbled a few pleasant adjectives in response. He was quiet on the car ride home, and all throughout the summer. They didn't ask, so he let them assume he was hard at work revising for the NEWTs while he locked himself up in his room.

Hogwarts was disconcertingly hollow upon his return, with nearly half the students gone and the golden trio of Potter, Weasley, and Granger in hiding. Even Lisa could not convince her mother that going back to school was in her best interests, and when Terry called her to discuss when they should go to Diagon Alley she sobbed to him over the phone, telling him how her mother had hired a private tutor for her.

It had also become a much more dangerous place—the Ministry put up a registration act for people like him, and it took some fast and fancy spellwork and research to procure his documentation. He wasn't sure what would have happened if they'd caught him, but thankfully the Ministry official that came to look at his paperwork had been trained to detect discrepancies in family trees, not adoption papers. He could not disprove that Terry Boot was, in truth, the secret child of one Bertha Jorkins (who was, conveniently for Terry, both pureblooded and dead).

It wasn't until later on, when Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood both disappeared and the DA turned into something almost criminal (it was rebellion and anarchy in a totalitarian and unjust system, Michael insisted, and it was hard not to get swept away in all of that), that Terry reconsidered his decision to stay at Hogwarts.

"You kids never learn to keep your mouth shut," Madam Pomfrey grumbled, applying all manners of healing salve on his cheeks, his arms, his ribs.

"They'd have found other reasons to torture us regardless," Terry pointed out, wincing as Pomfrey dabbed too hard. "At least now Hogwarts knows Harry Potter is safe somewhere, on the back of a ruddy dragon."

Madam Pomfrey tsk-tsked in response, muttering about the foolishness of youth, but Terry caught the fondness in her voice, the subtle approval that came with the gentling of her touch.

"You'll have to stay the night, I'm afraid," Madam Pomfrey decided. "In you go, there's a good lad. We don't want you getting up to trouble so soon after dinner, do we?"

"Probably not," Terry mumbled. He entered the room with all intention of curling up on one of the cots and sleeping the pain away, but froze before he could get very far. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?" Draco Malfoy shot back, putting down the potion he'd been chugging—Dreamless Sleep, Terry thought, but he did not get a good look at it—and keeping it away from view. "I fell and hurt myself, so I came here."

There were scratches on his arms, a dark bruise forming just under his eye, and briefly Terry wondered if he'd missed anyone in the DA bragging about beating Draco Malfoy recently. "Yeah, well, don't get any smart ideas; I've got a wand and I know how to use it," he warned.

Draco only laughed hollowly. "Bugger off, Boot," he said, and that was it. No vitriol, no spiteful remark—Terry narrowed his gaze, suspicious now of whatever Draco Malfoy might be planning. (Wasn't he in league with the Carrows? Wasn't he Marked? Hadn't he been doing You-Know-Who's bidding all this time?) Before he could dig deeper, however, a single Galleon burned in the pocket of his robes.

The DA had called for a meeting, and he needed to find a way to get back to them.

Terry Boot did not see Draco Malfoy again until later, when he stumbled upon him (hunched over, mouth bleeding) by the entrance hall.

"Second fall in two nights, Malfoy?" Terry asked amid the chaos of Death Eaters and students battling in what were once the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

"You again."

There were more Death Eaters headed their way. Terry's heart beat wildly, the grip on his wand tightening as he readied himself for battle. He hadn't seen Michael, or Neville, or Padma—hell, he was even beginning to worry about Anthony at this point. _Nothing_ from the DA would be enough for him to fight them all single-handed, but he stood his ground. If he failed in this, he hoped Lisa would be able to explain it all to his parents.

What happened next he could not explain. Perhaps it was a rush of adrenaline—a burst of energy, dexterity, agility that pumped through his veins—or a sort of survival instinct jogged to action by the desperation of the situation, but Terry found himself in battle, actually _fighting_ , deflecting hexes and curses and returning with a couple of his own. (No, it was not adrenaline rush at all, was it? It was _magic_ in its purest and rawest, the kind that he'd always had in him.)

He swished and flicked his wrist, Levitating a large portrait (quickly vacated by Anne Boleyn as the Marquesse of Pembroke, artist unknown) before he threw it at one of the Death Eaters, knocking the largest man out with a single blow.

"Watch out!" Draco Malfoy yelled suddenly, grabbing Terry's leg and yanking him off-balance. In the split-second after, a beam of bright red light hit the spot on the wall where Terry's head had been. "There's no time for fancy spells when there's three of them, Boot!"

Before Terry could reply, however, Draco grabbed his wand, aiming behind the remaining Death Eaters and casting a strong _Descendo_ that brought a large, thick pillar down upon all of them. When the dust settled, Terry could see only the rubble. He glanced at Draco uneasily, surprised when the boy tossed his wand back to him.

"Where's _your_ wand?" Terry asked, his priorities slightly skewed, perhaps, by the absurdity of Draco Malfoy saving his life.

Draco shrugged. "You're welcome, by the way." He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"That's none of your business. Sod off."

"Wait, you can't just leave. _Wait_ ," Terry hissed, grabbing Draco by the arm. "You can't go out there without a _wand_! Are you _mad_?"

"Why, Boot, are you offering me yours?"

"Of course not!" Terry scoffed. "I'll go with you, but I have to know where."

Draco hesitated. "I want to find my parents."

Terry nodded. "Let's go," he said, though they did not find Draco's parents until after Harry Potter had saved the world. Draco's mother clung to her son tight, sobbing with relief, his father trembling behind her, and it was only polite for Terry to give them space, so he slipped away to look for his friends.

"Terry!" There was Michael, tackling him with a fierce hug. "Where've you _been_ , mate? Anthony and I couldn't find you! We thought—"

"It's fine; I'm fine. Is everyone—"

"One of the Weasleys, Fred or George, I wasn't sure. Only saw the face," Michael replied, his grin disappearing. "That boy with the camera—Colin? And I think I saw Vincent Crabbe—"

"Stop. Forget I asked," Terry said weakly.

Michael nodded, leading him toward what was normally the Hufflepuff table, though this time it was occupied by DA members. "What're _they_ doing here?" he muttered under his breath, glaring as he passed by the Malfoys, who were huddled together at the far end of the Slytherin table.

Terry suspected he knew why, but there were only so many things that he truly knew for certain, and any part of a truth, by itself, is still a lie.

"I don't know," Terry replied, his eyes catching Draco's for the briefest of moments. "But I would like to."


End file.
